


Howlers

by anonstarbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s04e04 Unruhe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10105109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonstarbuck/pseuds/anonstarbuck
Summary: Post-episode scene





	

She always knew princess stories were bullshit, but as she re-reads her report and tries to ignore the blurring computer screen, she tries to separate the emotions into meticulously cultivated samples. _Be precise_ , she thinks and blinks back tears, _why are you crying_.

 _Because I am grateful to be alive_ , she thinks, and remembers the fleeting moment while tied to the dentist chair in which she had conjured her mother’s gentle face and had apologised to her– for making her live through the loss of yet another child, another family member. The litany had ripped through her as she had stumbled over her rusted German like a woman losing a race. And she was. Losing. Despite all hope.

The image of Mulder bursting into the darkness, ripping into the gloom while wielding his gun like some kind of avenging angel was something she hadn’t pictured since catechism. It had made her reach for imaginary rosaries. It had made her turn her face skyward and say yet another “thank you” for his presence, this Azrael in Armani. It had made her want to hold his hands and count the bones there like prayer beads. It was an image that brought tears to her eyes.

 _I am crying because I am angry_ , she explains, and she is. Rightfully so. How often have women suffered under the hand of the men who want to “save” them? How many have been thought to be victims of evil forces, witchcraft, fucking Howlers, even, and have been rescued against their will? Lost? Lobotomised literally and metaphorically? The loss of agency, in herself and in other women has always made her howl with frustration. Having a man tie her down and inflict his disorder, his contamination on her makes her feel sick.

 _He was human and so am I_. She has empathised with a serial killer, opened her mind to him, understood him. It simultaneously softens and hardens her, and vulnerability always breaks her heart and makes her furious. Howlers are just a name, but there are other ways to see a mind poisoned, a life desecrated and made profane.

She gingerly touches the spot between her eyes, where the howlers are meant to be inhabiting her and closes her eyes. She feels like she should continue, as if she had started crossing herself but stopped at the very first step. In the name of the father. How true for Gerry Schnauz. How true for her, for Mulder.

She presses harder against her brow, reminding herself with the same fingers that cut up the dead, that she is still very much alive. She tries, unsuccessfully, to shake away the gnawing sensation that’s been bothering her since.

That something dismal and ominous is living there; a Howler of sorts, whispering darkness into her body.


End file.
